Nine Hours Till Sunrise by Better Hero Army

Author:Better Hero Army [Better Hero Army]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Storyteller Press
Published: 2013-11-01T07:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

Ben and Tucker heard the gunfire. The snap and pop came so loudly through the wall it startled them both. Tucker dropped all the boxes of matches he’d found, crouching quickly while drawing his pistol. Ben pushed his back against the wall and looked both front and back, head turning between them with every shot fired. The sound came from behind him mostly, at ground level, in the alley. What was going on, Ben wondered?

Tucker felt around on the floor for the matches, picking up a couple of boxes as he listened. One of the others must have gone into the alley with all those moaners and started shooting them all up, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of why.

“You don’t suppose they came looking for us, do you?” Tucker whispered as the gunfire played out. It sounded like a dozen shots in all. They’d gone off so quickly he hadn’t thought to keep a good count in his head.

“That would be dumb,” Ben whispered. “You found any bullets yet?”

“No, but I got some matches. If I light one--”

“Don’t go drawing attention our way!” Ben whispered harshly. His back still ached from all the walking after his earlier fall. Running from a pack of deaders and trying to reload at the same time, in the dark, was the last thing he wanted.

Tucker had other ideas. We could make a stand if we had light and enough bullets, he thought, if Ben and the others weren’t such cowards. He’d show Pat Ormsby who was afraid of a fight. Light up the place to draw him in, and then blam! He’d show that fat son of a bitch.

“Are you looking?” Ben whispered. Tucker shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts. He was still crouched low with pistol in hand. He huffed and shoved his pistol into its holster to keep up the search. The moaning outside still echoed from the open back door, filling the room enough to mask the soft noise of his foot sliding across the junk-strewn floor, or when his hands gently felt around the contents of the shelves, pushing and sliding things, knocking them over from time to time.

He was most worried about spiders. Getting bit by one in the dark to be more precise. Some big, fat black widow so old and mean the store owner probably gave it a name and left it alone, never selling that can of beans or box of nails it anchored its sticky, thick nest to. He imagined the spider scurrying along on an invisible line to leap on the back of his hand, sensing his warmth. Its tiny fangs would dig into one of his veins in the hopes of making a gusher of blood from which to drink.

The only thing worse would be snakes. A mean rattler sleeping out the night, not licking the air so it wouldn’t know Tucker was there. He’d reach a hand out and touch its firm, smooth back, coiled up like a rope, and out of instinct it would strike.

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